Right Thing
by Blaze6
Summary: No commitment meant no feelings to be hurt. J/S


TITLE: Right Thing

AUTHOR: Blaze

RATING/SPOILERS: PG-11. Seriously, it really ought to be PG, but there are a few non-PG words in there. And I don't think there are any spoilers.

SUMMARY: No commitment meant no feelings to be hurt. J/S

DISCLAIMER: Ooh, I own… nothing. Hank Steinberg owns 'em.

A/Ns: A 'should be served with wine and crackers' thank you to D, for, you know, everything. ;-) And much love to Maple Street, you all are awesome and I'm lucky to be among you all. Enjoy!

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"I don't think we can—"

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"I'm sorry, but—"

"We can't—"

"Sam, I—"

"This isn't—"

Every beginning was wrong.

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"—do this—"

"—this really must—"

Every beginning to the end was wrong.

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"—keep pretending—"

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"—care for you, but—"

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"—your fault, I just can't—"

No matter the combination, the words, the phrases, nothing was right. Which left him watching himself in a bathroom mirror, telling his reflection it was over again and again and again… and his counterpart didn't appear to understand any more than he thought she would.

He wondered if she'd cry. He wondered what he would think if she didn't. Wondered which would make him feel worse, tears or acceptance?

His reflection held no answers, only a disappointed look that let him know it didn't like what it was hearing. He looked it straight in the eye and told it goodbye.

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"Sam, I think we should—"

There was no reason to think she'd cry. No commitment meant no feelings to be hurt, no hearts to be broken, no tears. She knew. She knew it could end at any time. Just as he knew it would one day have to stop.

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"—stop this. It's not fair to—"

Didn't make it any better, though.

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"—my daughters or—"

He gazed deep into chocolate eyes and terminated the last thing to make him feel.

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"—you. I'd hate to see your career affected by this—"

No career talk. She didn't know about Section 23; he wasn't about to tell her that their actions had the ability to destroy both his marriage and their jobs.

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"—you. You deserve better, something permanent—"

Nothing sounded right. Damn it, everything was wrong. The words were wrong, the ideas wrong, his damn tone of voice wrong…

Maybe this wasn't the right thing to do.

Staying with her wasn't right, either. Nothing was right, everything was wrong, and he had to stop the relationship before she kissed him one more time and muddled the mess further.

Why hadn't losing Marie been this hard? Losing Marie at any time during their marriage would've been easier than this. He had loved his wife, hadn't he?

And if he had loved his wife and it wasn't this hard to let her go, then what did he feel for Samantha?

Two different people, he told himself. I do not love Samantha. This is only harder because it's happening now, when my wife and daughters have decided to lose me.

"I've already lost one of them," he told his reflection. "Do I have to lose the other, too?"

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"Samantha, I don't think we should do this anymore."

Jesus. A complete sentence. A complete final note. He supposed that meant he should go before he let it slip away.

Walking out of the bathroom, he turned slightly and caught his reflection walking out on him—or was he walking out on it?—and speculated that he was, in effect, practicing being both the one scorning and the one scorned.

Jack started down the gum- and spit- and god-only-knows-what-else-covered stairs leading into the subway station and watched Samantha's stoic expression waver as he told the concrete it was over.

Dropped his tokens into the machine and she smiled slightly, told him it was okay, she understood, in a tone that screamed she didn't. Pushed through the turnstile and pushed some hair off her cheek, tried not to let his hand linger on her face.

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"I'm sorry."

A homeless guy in a grayed winter coat said, "Why don't you apologize with some cash, you fuckin' asshole!"

What the fuck? Sam would never say that. He gave the man a superficial looking-over, then continued on towards the platform.

The rubber gaskets on the train's double door met as her lips touched his, the finality of both motions not lost on him. He made sure his seat was dry and visibly drug-free and let a tear slide half an inch down her face before he wiped it away. Tracking the saline path of another tear with his eyes before he kissed it away—the train slowing—the world slowing—at the next station—in her bed—a rush of cold air washing over—her sheets on his—guilty conscience—skin as the sun came up and he exited the subway.

What the hell was he doing?

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"Samantha, I don't think we can do this anymore."

This was right. This was right. This was… wrong.

Okay, it was wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong. Everything about this was wrong and it didn't make a bit of difference—he had a relationship to disappear. It didn't matter that he didn't think it was right, that he couldn't accurately visualize what she would do or say, that it had taken almost an hour to get the words out of his mouth all at once. It didn't matter because it was over, it had to be over, it needed to be over—he needed it to be over—and it would be over.

No commitment meant no feelings to be hurt, he reminded himself.

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We can't do this anymore.

Non-chalantly, she told him it was okay. Asked him why he was doing this, he didn't have to, did he? Told him not to touch her, there was no need now. Pointed to the door and didn't say a word as he left. Was this about Marie or the job? Did _she_ know? Did you even think about this?

The choice was his and he'd thought too much.

He found himself watching people's faces, his eyes flitting from one passer-by to the next, searching for signs of love lost. Wanted to ask each one who they'd ended relationships with and how, who'd broken their hearts and why. He wasn't a statistician, but he wanted numbers: means, modes, quartile ranges, cumulative frequency graphs, proof that what he was doing was common. Numbers were another form of profile, profiling gave him comfort through discovery and organized thought, and right now, he needed all the security he could get.

A nod to Sam's doorman and about ten steps to the elevator later, Jack's heart racing and a sweaty fingerprint left on the button for the fourth floor, he was left reminiscing that although the machine rose at the speed of an elephant climbing a bungee cord, she'd been nothing short of thrilled that she wouldn't have to walk groceries, her laundry, or her worn out self up four flights of stairs.

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"Samantha, I'm sorry, but we can't do this anymore."

He arrived at her floor with a mechanized ding and stepped out of the elevator just before the doors closed and he could legitimately change his mind. Wondered if she'd try to change it herself. Wondered if she could. Wondered how much he really wanted her to try to change his mind. Wondered why he was wondering so damn much and not knocking.

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Samantha, I'm sorry

Tears?

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But we can't

Acceptance?

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Do this anymore.

Something in between?

He knocked. Took a deep, apprehensive breath.

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We need to be just colleagues. I need to try to work things out with my wife. I can't… I can't do this anymore.

The door opened.

"Hey."


End file.
